


have no masters

by springsoldier (ladydaredevil)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydaredevil/pseuds/springsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is better in the Arena than Anakin Skywalker, but his are not the only games being played.<br/>(Gladiator AU in which Palpatine seized power earlier and the Zygerrians are in the entertainment business.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	have no masters

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching Spartacus and, well. This happened.

The crowd is roaring its approval. Cheering for him, their Champion with No Fear.

They chant _Sky-wal-ker_ and he boils with rage at the thought of his mother’s name in their mouths.

Anakin hates them, _hates_ them all.

Cowards who delight in death and suffering but would fall to their knees begging to be spared if they were to face him in the Arena.

His opponent lies dead at his feet, blood seeping into the sand, and his _mistress_ looks satisfied, lounging up there on her balcony.

Business as usual.

 

_“Anakin”_

He snaps to attention. Obi-Wan hands him a cup of water and gives him a thorough once-over, trying to assess the damage he might have sustained. There was none, not today.

They find a secluded spot to sit to eat their tasteless gruel. Anakin grumbles a little but chokes it down. He’s starving. It feels like he’s always starving.

“You fought well today,” Obi-Wan comments, mostly to distract himself from the blandness of the food.

Anakin shrugs. The seam between what’s left of his arm and his prosthetic aches and he rubs at it absentmindedly. Most limbs lost in the arena do not get replaced, but he is valuable enough that an exception was made.

“I always do.”

“And so modest, too.”

“Don’t forget handsome.”

He offers his most rakish grin and Obi-Wan shakes his head at him, amused.

“I don’t know, I’m not a fan of the scar.”

Anakin snorts and Obi-Wan rests a hand on his shoulder, the warm point of contact helping the tension of the day bleed away. He allows himself to lean into it for a moment.

“I hear we’re fighting together tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” He can’t help a smile at the news. The two of them are one of the best teams the Arena has ever produced: impenetrable defense and powerful offense. And with Obi-Wan by his side, he can almost forget the crowd.

“You don’t have to look so pleased about it,” Obi-Wan says, tone too fond for the reprimand to sting. He doesn’t fight so often these days – not because he’s older than he used to be, anyone who thinks he might be past his prime is sorely mistaken – but because he’s too good a trainer to risk losing. He’s more valuable elsewhere, now.

It makes his occasional appearances all the more exciting to the public.

And to Anakin.

He wonders who’s been picked to stand against the two of them. They’ll make it someone good, for the last day of the games.

One of the guards calls out to Obi-Wan and he steps away with a quick goodbye, abandoning his leftovers to Anakin’s bigger appetite.

Obi-Wan’s allowed more freedom than the rest of them – he’s made himself almost indispensable, throughout his long years of service. He sticks to the rules and doesn’t cause trouble – not unless Anakin’s involved, anyway—and has both the skills and the temperament to inspire respect in recruits and seasoned fighters alike. They have him help the new arrivals, get them through the first cruel months of training. It keeps him busy.

Anakin’s not alone for long, though.

“Here’s to living another day,” Ahsoka says, sitting down next to him and raising her cup to his. Careful movements and assorted bruising aside, she seems to have made it through more or less unscathed. He’s glad. “I wish they’d stop giving me the really big, dumb ones. Some variety would be nice.”

“I’d trade you mine if I could, Snips.”

Ahsoka stands out from the average gladiator: Young. Slender. Pretty.  Born free, captured two years earlier. She’d been meant as a domestic slave, if not worse. She’d killed all those who’d laid a hand on her. Some with her teeth.

The novelty of someone of her stature doing so well had piqued the crowd’s interest. Her deadliness with the dual blades she favours ensures she keeps it.

Most of the other gladiators leave her alone because she’ll make them pay if they don’t. And even the really stupid ones know what Anakin will do to them if they try anything.

They finish their meals together as she tells him about her day. He helps her practice a few blocking manoeuvres afterwards, even though he’s bone-tired and he knows she must be, too.

She trips him and laughs when he goes sprawling into the dust. Her triumph doesn’t last: he drags her down to his level and tickles her until she begs for mercy. He can feel the disapproving gazes of some of the others, who think they’re being _undignified_.

They may very well die bloody tomorrow. Why waste time on _dignity_?

He’d rather make Ahsoka cry with laughter.  

 

Miraj asks for him, later. Takes him for a walk as if he were a _dog_ , enquires after his day as though she hasn’t had a hand in every minute of it.

He would like the be able to say that he doesn’t know why she favours him, but she’s explained it at length. She likes his _defiance_. His resolve to buy his freedom and Obi-Wan and Ahsoka’s. An ambitious goal, she says, even though they’re both aware he’s made her a fortune.

She’s also aware of his other goal, which is to cut her fucking head off.

_Ambitious indeed._

It amuses her.

“The Emperor will be there, tomorrow. It seems he’s heard of you and wanted to see you for himself,” she says, tracing his features with a sharp nail. He fights not to shudder. “You’ll be good for me.”

He makes his bow as disrespectful as possible and retreats.

 

He’ restless that night, tossing and turning in between dreams of his mother, of blood and the pain of the whip and the sand of the Arena. He must wake Obi-Wan, because he moves closer. Presses into his back and says into his neck, above the shock-collar:

“Shh. Try to rest. Tomorrow’s an important day.”

He sleeps a little easier after, quieted by the familiar voice, Obi-Wan’s steady presence keeping the nightmares at bay. It always does.

In the morning they help each other into their armours. It’s the ceremonial ones, the ones that look nice but hinder movement, which he could really do without. Obi-Wan tells him to quit complaining.

He’s in full lecture mode, at the moment. Anakin thinks he must be anxious. Not for them, particularly, but for his recruits. Most of them won’t make it.

“And do try not to finish off your opponent too fast this time. You know the audience doesn’t like that.”

“The audience can suck my –”

Obi-Wan cuts him off with a quick kiss, prodding him toward the door in the same movement.

“Come on, you’ll be late.”

“Wouldn’t want _that_.”

They stand looking at each other, for a moment.

 “I’ll see you later,” Anakin promises.

 

His first match of the day is unremarkable. Several opponents, human, somewhat skilled.

In between blows he sneaks a glance at the high seats.

He’s looking for the Emperor, to see if the bastard’s decided to grace them with his presence, when he lands on _her_.

His Angel of Death, he thinks sometimes, when he’s feeling poetic.

She’s often present, sitting stone-faced in one of the good seats. She never seems pleased, but not bored, either, not like some of the others. She’s three rows beneath the Emperor now. He knows nothing of politics, but he knows power when he sees it.

He’s considered acknowledging her a few times, but Miraj wouldn’t like that.

One adversary down, blade through the throat.

Two. Sliced open.

Three. Head crushed.

The last begs for mercy. The audience screams for death.

Four.

 

He lingers to see Ahsoka’s fight, after, her opponent a Trandoshan easily twice her size.

It lasts longer than he would like, its scales too thick for her usual tactics. Still, he’s not _too_ worried.

She has the crowd’s favour, even though she hasn’t earned a title yet. She will be a legend, one day, if he has anything to say about it.

She finds a way up its back and goes for the eyes, in the end. He knows she can discern his appreciative whistles from the rest of the cheers because she turns to the gates he’s standing behind and winks.

She has a split lip and what’s likely to be a sprained ankle from a bad fall, but nothing worse than that. He claps, and she gives him a bloody smile.

 

The midday sun is too hot for anything interesting to happen. Anakin washes the blood from his arms as Obi-Wan fusses over his crooked armour, grumbling about shoddy workmanship.

Ahsoka is uncharacteristically quiet, even when Plo Koon, whose company she usually enjoys, tries to compliment her on her win.

Her eyes remain set on the balcony where the _honoured guests_ are having a much more interesting meal and she sighs wistfully whenever she catches a glimpse of one of the servants, the Mirialan girl she’s so taken with.

Anakin pats her head in sympathy and she turns a weak glare in his direction, refusing to let herself be distracted.

Behind him, Obi-Wan snaps at Ventress to stop needling the recruits and Anakin tenses, but she retreats after a few more barbs. It’s too hot for infighting, even Ventress – the infamous Count Dooku’s former Champion – knows that. She’d been sold her after a resounding defeat that left her alive but badly injured. Miraj had snatched her up for a meagre sum when no one knew for sure she would live, but the gamble has paid off: She’s back on her feet and more vicious than ever.

Which also means that she doesn’t appreciate having to make her way back up the ranks, and is another reason Anakin’s always glad to have Obi-Wan at his back.

Horns sound the end of the break.

The show goes on.

 

He and Obi-Wan are the main event, the very last, which at least means that the sun is setting. He’s never even heard of their opponent before. It’s a little disappointing, though Anakin supposes he _is_ pretty large.

“Oh, is that all?” Obi-Wan says when they get a first look at him.

The extra pair of arms is a challenge, but they’re nothing if not adaptable.

“It’s like they’re underestimating us.”

“Maybe he’s _very_ good.”

The Emperor himself gives the signal to begin.

“What an _honour_ ,” Obi-Wan says under his breath, out of sight from the drone cams.

“Apparently he likes me.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Anakin gives him a light shove and then their opponent is rushing at them.

Being chained together should be more of a disadvantage than it is, but they’ve trained and fought together often enough to anticipate each other’s movements.

“Hey, remember the first time we did this?”

“You mean when you dragged me around the whole time and almost got us both killed?”

“How was I supposed to know you’d trip over the chain? _Anyway_ ” he dodges a blow and Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to hack at the extended arm. “that was a good kill. Very cinematic. We should do it again.”

“Hmm.”

The Besalisk never stands a chance.

 

That night Obi-Wan’s out visiting the new blood, the ones who made it through the day. The cell they’ve shared for years feels empty without him, but he should be back any minute now: they’re starting up training the early in the morning. Anakin sits up when he hears the dorm’s door slide open, but the figure that emerges is distinctly not Obi-Wan. He frowns. Visitors aren’t uncommon, but not usually at this time of the night.

They step closer and draw down their hood.

He recognises the woman instantly, the one from the senatorial seats. She's still beautiful, but not quite so blank anymore, the elaborate dresses he's always seen her in traded for dark, practical clothing. They stare at each other silently for a moment, and then she unlocks the door to his cell.

He sidles out, not one to waste the opportunity. These things simply don’t _happen_. She must want something from him, he thinks, though he can’t imagine what.

 He notices the device in her hand as she raises it to his neck, to his collar. It’s more a reflex than a conscious gesture to stop her in her tracks.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She looks down to the mechanical hand clamped around her arm, apparently unfazed even though she’s s _een_ what it can do.

“Freeing you.”

The world stops for a second.

“…Why?”

“The Rebellion needs fighters like you, and a face for people to rally behind. You’re very popular.” She pauses, tilts her head to look him in the eye. “Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of it.

“And if I won’t fight for you?”

“I think you will.”

He shrugs, makes no promises, but – she’s not wrong. If she frees him, there won’t be much he _doesn’t_ owe her. And there’s no point in arguing about it if they don’t make it out first. But first things first:

“Are you sure these work? I’d rather not lose my head.”

He’d been good with electronics as a child, before he’d grown tall and headstrong and they’d sent him away to be trained. Had dreamed of coming up with a way to disable the collars.

His neck is still scarred from a few less than successful attempts.

“Trust me,” she says, gaze unwavering. He laughs. 

“Why should I? I don’t even know your name.”

“Senator Amidala, but call me Padmé. Come on, when’s the next time you’ll get this sort of opportunity?”

_Never_ , he thinks. 

He releases her arm and closes his eyes. He’s never been big on faith, never has had a reason to be, but there is something deep inside him whispering that  _yes, this is right_. 

The – all too familiar – jolt of electricity he’s braced himself for never comes. The collar splits open in his hands and he can’t breathe for a second.

_Freedom_. The thought is dizzying for a moment.

But they’re not done yet.

She tosses him one of the devices.

“Go on, free your people. Whoever’s trustworthy and discrete.”

“My partner – Obi-Wan –“ he starts. She waves off his concerns.

“I haven’t come alone. Someone will get him.”

“He’s with the new ones.”

“I know,” she says, already walking away. He frowns.

“How would you know?”

“We’ve talked. I needed someone on the inside to disable the security systems”

It’s true that Obi-Wan is sometimes brought to the Villa when there are guests. Miraj is far too jealous of Anakin’s attention to allow him anything like that, but Obi-Wan could, in theory, have been left alone with a senator for a few moments. Still, the risk of discovery –

“He never told me anything about this.”

She shrugs. 

“You’re closely watched, it seems.”

The secrecy stings, but will have to be stored away for later consideration.

He frees Ahsoka first. No matter what happens to him, in the end, if she makes it out he will have no regrets. She snaps awake as her cell door slides open, and looks at him in surprise, eyes automatically going to his neck.

“ _How_ ,” she whispers, awed, as he helps her up.

“I don’t know, Snips. But we’re getting out of here.”

“What about the guards? They’ll figure it out soon.”

She’s right. He has no idea how long they have until they’re found out, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it much.

Let them come and try to put him back in his cage.

“What, you afraid of a few Zygerrians now?”

She grins, and he moves on, leaving her in Padmé’s care.

It’s easier to get the others up to speed. He points at the cells he wants opened, Padmé disables the locks, he shows them the device and opened collar in his hand.

Most don’t hesitate, after that.

Then they’re out: Windu, Billaba, Vos, Gallia, Mundi… the list goes on. Obi-Wan would be better suited to convincing them that leaving is a good option, Anakin thinks. He has a way with words and knows most of these people much better than Anakin does. He rarely bothers to get to know potential opponents, he’s never had the detachment necessary to befriend people he may have to kill in the future.

He hesitates before freeing Ventress, but she’s too formidable a fighter to leave behind if they have to carve their way out.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she says, and disappears.

He leaves the ones who can’t be reasoned with behind, does not think of what will happen to them in the morning.

 

The guards in the courtyard are unconscious – or dead, he doesn’t particularly care. Padmé leads them to a rendezvous point with some of her people. He shadows her as she exchanges a few quiet words with one of her women – they all look remarkably like her, but this one particularly so.

“Panaka's team has run into some _complications_ ,” the woman says, with a pointed look. “We should get moving soon.”

Where _is_ Obi-Wan? Anakin assumes he’s with that other group, and he is damn well not leaving before they show up.

Ahsoka catches up to him, looking more agitated than giddy, which is what he’d have expected in this scenario. She stops in front of Padmé, sounding frantic:

 “What about the house slaves? We can’t just leave them!”

Padmé looks sad, shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, but we _can’t_. The villa is too heavily guarded; it would be suicide. I can’t ask that of my people.”

Ahsoka looks heartbroken. 

_“No.”_

Anakin puts a restraining hand on her shoulder, looks down at her.

“She’s right, Snips. But we’ll come back, as soon as we can come up with a plan. With or without these people, you and me. I promise you.”

“But –”

“Let it go, Ahsoka.”

The truth is, he’d like nothing more than to use his newfound freedom to set the whole Estate on fire, and the Zygerrians with it.

And if he were to die in the process, fine.

But her? She can do more than go out in a blaze of glory.

Padmé’s explaining their exit strategy when figures emerge from the surrounding darkness. Anakin tenses – there’s the fight he’d been waiting for – but Padmé wave them over, takes the lead as they start to move out.

Obi-Wan is dead last, of course, supporting a limping boy. Anakin will be irritated later, but for the moment he just takes some of the weight off of him.

“So, I hear you’ve been busy.”

 “Just a little something to break the routine.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to get _bored._ ”

Anakin looks over the new arrivals – the recruits, Padmé’s people, and – his eyebrows rise as he recognises some of them. Because they aren’t the new meat, they’re –

Looks like _someone_ did break into the villa after all.

Ahsoka throws herself into a girl’s arms and they almost fall over, the girl – Barriss, he thinks, is her name – flailing a little to keep her balance. Ahsoka releases her almost as quickly, bringing one of her bloodstained palm up with a gasp.

“Are you alright? Did anyone hurt you?”

 “Oh no,” she says, flushing. “that’s not mine.”

Anakin is reluctantly impressed.

“We ran into – some trouble,” Obi-Wan admits ruefully. “Nothing we couldn’t handle”

There is a scream, somewhere back in the Villa and he thinks he can hear the crackle of electro-whips powering up in the distance.

"The alarms should still be disabled", Padmé assures them. That should buy them some time.

 

They reach the outer gate. There’s constant shouting now, growing louder, growing close. They’ll be seen any second.

Anakin lets the others pass him by. Padmé, still unflustered, who’s letting their ride know to power up the engines.  Ahsoka, who’s taken charge of the small group of house slaves. Padmé’s people, the other gladiators. All of them hurrying along and disappearing into the darkness.

Freedom is a few steps away, he thinks. And then they’ll be fugitives.

He stops.

Despite what he’s told Ahsoka, Anakin doesn’t want to run.

Doesn’t want to _hide_.

He can see the first guards in the distance. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to make a stand, to buy the others some time.

She’s not paying attention to him now, might not notice his absence until it’s too late to go back. Ahsoka would not expect this of him.

There’s no getting past Obi-Wan, though.

He hesitates, and Obi-Wan catches his shoulder, hisses into his ear:

“I know you want Miraj dead – so do we all. But even _if_ you could get through all her people, the Imperial guard will be here any minute.”

He hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. He’d only thought of fighting them on even ground, for once in his life.

“ _I don’t care_ ”

Obi-Wan’s grip tightens as the guards spot them. They’re going to be out of time soon. Then he sighs, and says:

“If you really do want to go back, I will go with you, and we _will_ be killed. There are worse deaths, but I’d rather enjoy freedom a little longer, wouldn’t you?”

Anakin swallows, resolve wavering. He would give many things for this moment. Obi-Wan’s life is not one of them.

 The first blaster shots burn into the gate behind them. Neither of them flinch.

“So, what’ll it be?”

They run.

 

The Estate is in full view as the ship takes off, bustling with activity as the extent of the breakout is discovered.

Anakin will see it burn, one day.

“Now what?” Ahsoka asks, leaning over Obi-Wan’s seat to talk to Padmé. Conversations around them simmer down as all eyes turn to her.

“Well, that depends,” she answers. “How do you feel about toppling the Empire?”


End file.
